


you shred the cello (and i’m jello, baby)

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, bellamy can't keep it the fuck down when he's getting it on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7229779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She half-expects him to approach her and apologise, or at least <i>appear</i> mortified or regretful or ashamed — but he just fucking <i>winks</i> at her. </p><p>Who the <i>fuck</i> winks at a complete stranger after said stranger’s just overheard you having sex with someone else?!</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Clarke doesn’t get mad. She gets even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you shred the cello (and i’m jello, baby)

**Author's Note:**

> fic based on a tumblr prompt i lost the link to: 
> 
> “I’m at the library to study because my roommate is loud and sloppy and I just want some peace and quiet but you keep bringing your latest hook-up to the stacks right by me to make out and I get so fed up with it that I start a campaign to make sure you never get laid again”
> 
>  
> 
> i've had this sitting in my bellarke folder for about a week now and i honestly only remembered it when i saw [squidnie's version](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7225282) pop up on the bellarke tag (check it out later if you want cos it was a lot of fun!!). 
> 
> after a quick clean-up, here it is!

 

 

 

 

 

Clarke’s a reasonably patient person.

 

She’s never been one of those people to get worked up sixteen times a day over every single thing, whether it’s being cut off in traffic or just having someone bump into you on the street. She’s a staunch believer in avoiding confrontation for confrontation’s sake, and she certainly feels like it’s a system that’s worked for her well enough over the course of her twenty-two years.

 

But right now, sitting at her table in the campus library, she’s seriously reconsidering the merits of putting down her pen and outright yelling _“SHUT THE FUCK UP”_.

 

And she has every fucking right to be pissed all the _way_ off.

 

Jasper claims an inability to absorb information without some kind of loud, guns-blazing, shoot-first-ask-later action movie playing in the background. Raven studies in her room, but she has a tendency to blast classic rock at an indecent volume that has absolutely no regard for walls.

 

Monty is more than content with his large, noise-cancelling headphones, but between her other two roommates, she’s just about ready to tear her hair out.

 

She’s always avoided the campus library because it’s practically impossible to get a decent table whenever exam season’s coming up, and, truth be told, she _hates_ sharing, even if it’s with a friend. There’s just something inexplicably satisfying about having all her material spread out in front of her — it calms her, centres her, gives her a sense of _control_.

 

So, imagine, if you will, her _utter delight_ when she first stumbles upon the third floor of the library.

 

It’s easy to see why it’s deserted. The air circulation isn’t the best, probably because one or more of the air conditioners have been left off. There are a lot less power sockets. The tables are still the older wooden ones from before the library got its overhaul and brought in shinier, sleeker plastic tables. There’s no toilets, no water fountains.

 

 _But_ it’s almost always empty, which gives her a) unlimited options, b) precious access to tables close to power sockets, and, more importantly, c) peace and quiet.

 

Half the time, a good third of the lights aren’t even on, usually on the entire right section.

 

It’s like even the staff don’t bother going up to the third floor.

 

It’s _heaven_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Except for some nights, when it’s hell.

 

The first night, she doesn’t even notice the couple walking in, too absorbed in a diagram of the pulmonary valve to see or even hear them enter.

 

Apparently, they don’t notice her either, because within two minutes, she’s rudely yanked out of concentration by the distinct sounds of heated sexual activity.

 

She glances up from her work when the gasps and moans start to escalate, frowning at the furthest aisle. It’s on the side of the library that’s half-shrouded in darkness, so yeah, it’s a logical choice for a make-out session.

 

She hopes to whatever god is out there that it’s _just_ a make-out session.

 

About ten minutes in, a female keen pierces the air, jolting her out of concentration once again — a concentration she’d fought _very_ hard to regain, she thinks bitterly.

 

Now unable to focus on anything else, she suddenly notices that there’s a _very_ male voice rumbling on — _“fuck— yeah, come on, babe”_ and a stream of other stuff that’s making her suddenly notice how pathetically _weak_ the air conditioning runs on the third floor.

 

She drops her head to the table and waits miserably for whatever it is that’s going on in the furthest aisle to end.

 

Thankfully enough, it does end pretty quickly after that. She reluctantly pulls her head up and stares at her work, still not quite able to make out words from the jumble of lines on the pages. Especially not when the couple are still talking in hushed voices, punctuated by feminine giggles and masculine chuckles, both reeking of satisfaction.

 

 _Eurgh_.

 

She doesn’t even bother _trying_ to resist taking a peek when they emerge from the darkened shelves, fingers loosely linked, exchanging flirtatious glances and still shaking with soft laughter.

 

The girl is tall, sharply gorgeous in the kind of way that could cut glass and half-heartedly trying to fix her mussed brown hair with a careless hand. The man is in a plain blue tee that shows off his (annoyingly) sculpted arms, with shaggy dark curls and a fucking _jawline_ for _days_ , she notes grudgingly.

 

They trip out of the library, clearly completely unaware of their unwitting audience, and, for one split second, Clarke fervently wishes she could borrow Raven’s brash tongue to yell at them to stay out.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She doesn’t think it’ll happen a second time, but clearly, the universe is having a whale of a time with her frustration, so it does.

 

And a third.

 

And a _fourth_.

 

It’s usually the dark-haired man with the same tall, leggy brunette, him leading her into the library with an arrogant but charming swagger.

 

But on the third time, it’s a girl with lighter, shorter hair — though just as tall and leggy as the first brunette.

 

 _So either he’s cheating on Brunette Number One with Brunette Number Two,_ Clarke thinks grouchily when he returns the next week with the first girl on his arm, _or he’s dating neither of them. Because he’s already in love with himself._

 

 _Probably the second one,_ she tells herself when she next notices him come in, this time with a girl sporting a pixie cut.

 

To be fair, he doesn’t show up every _day_. He averages about once a week, sometimes less.

 

But to be _really_ fair, he shouldn’t be showing up _at all_. Not for his noisy sexcapades. She’s a huge fan of the idea of mantaining a sexually active lifestyle, but it’s still a fucking _library_ , even if no one comes in.

 

On the fifth time, he actually spots her on his way out.

 

She half-expects him to approach her and apologise, or at least _appear_ mortified or regretful or ashamed — but he just fucking _winks_ at her.

 

Who the _fuck_ winks at a complete stranger after said stranger’s just overheard you having sex with someone else?!

 

Then again, she’s not entirely sure _intercourse_ had taken place… but even through her earphones — and she fucking _hates_ that she’s resorted to bringing earphones — she’s heard enough to confidently bet on other forms of penetration.

 

And now she’s thinking of _‘other forms of penetration’_ in conjunction with the mental image of the boy with dark curls and the unbelievable jawline.

 

Great. Way to get back on track, Griffin.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s a good eight or nine days free of sex noises for her, and she relishes each and every minute.

 

Even though every night, she starts glancing up every fifteen minutes the later it gets, expecting to see Casanova and his flavour of the week stumble in, both already unable to keep their hands off each other and completely oblivious to her presence.

 

On day ten, she finally relaxes into a state of near-contentment.

 

Which, as it turns out, is the rough equivalent of beaming this dark-haired Casanova’s version of the Bat-Signal off the roof of the building.

 

Whatever his version of the Bat-Signal is, that is.

 

Knowing him, it’s probably a giant penis.

 

(And now she is definitely not wondering about the size of his penis.)

 

He appears with the original leggy brunette, her practically pulling him along with one hand as she giggles behind the other. She turns towards her destination, clearly still blissfully unaware of Clarke’s presence. While the brunette is distracted, the man glances across the room all the way to where Clarke’s seated at a table on the other end before— _fuck everything_ , did he _seriously_ just _wink_ at her _again_?!

 

The sounds of heated lip-locking start up in no time at all, quickly followed by breathy moans and gasps.

 

Before Clarke knows it, she’s out of her chair and moving.

 

She strides purposefully towards the last aisle, roughly raking her fingers through her hair as she goes, mussing up the strands as much as she can in order to hopefully create a believably windswept, harried effect.

 

As she nears the edge of the shelf, she takes a deep breath, and quickly arranges her features into her best imitation of a kicked puppy. Calling up what precious few pointers she can remember from hanging round high school play rehearsals painting sets, she steps round the wooden edge, eyes wide and mouth open.

 

The couple are far too engrossed in attempting to devour each other’s mouths to notice her standing at the end of the aisle.

 

Good.

 

She summons up her wateriest tremble of a voice.

 

“B— baby?”

 

Two heads whip round to look at her, one shocked and the other disbelieving.

 

“Wha—” the man starts to say, but Clarke takes another step forward to cut him off.

 

“Baby, what are you—” She glances at the brunette, whose jaw is practically on the floor. “Who is she, baby?”

 

The man is completely slack-jawed, and far too preoccupied with staring at her to prepare himself for the violent shove he suddenly receives from the brunette.

 

“You have a _girlfriend_?!” she hisses, furiously tugging her top back down over her exposed bra.

 

“I don’t—” he starts to protest, which Clarke immediately interrupts with a loud sniffle.

 

“Baby,” she says, injecting a teary wobble into her voice, “I know we’re going through a rough time now, but— but—” she puts one hand on her chest and widens pleading eyes, “I— I _love_ you.”

 

Something clicks in his face, his brows shooting up as his eyes glint in realisation, but he doesn’t have time to respond thanks to the hard slap delivered to his face, courtesy of the clearly _very_ pissed off brunette.

 

“ _Fuck_ you, Bellamy,” she spits venomously, swiping up her purse from the floor and pivoting on her heel to stride out of the aisle.

 

Clarke makes sure to keep up with the heartbroken act, throwing in a bit of confused distress for good measure when the brunette stops in front of her.

 

“I’m so sorry, honey,” the brunette says, a little stiltedly, her forehead creased with genuine sympathy. “You deserve better than this dick.”

 

Clarke plays the victim to perfection, even hamming it up by clapping a hand over her mouth, making sure to appear overwhelmed by an invisible surge of emotion as the brunette passes her with a few clicks of her high heels.

 

The second she hears the doors to the third floor open and the echo of high heels clacking out of the room, she drops her arms to her sides, glaring flatly at the slightly shellshocked man before whirling around and striding out of the aisle.

 

She keeps her head down as he hurries out of the shelves a minute later, enjoying the taste of victory far too much to bother looking to see if he spares her a glance on his way out.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She doesn’t hear Bellamy the next time he comes in, for two reasons.

 

One — she’s really, _really_ caught up in her work. She’s been on a legitimate _roll_ over the last three days, buoyed into a good mood at the prospect of having hours and hours of quiet studying ahead of her with zero probability of interruptions.

 

Two — he’s alone.

 

In fact, she really only notices he’s there when he’s already sitting across from her, leaning forward with both elbows on the table with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

 

“Can I help you?” she asks in her deadest of deadpans.

 

If he’s heard her question, he doesn’t show it. His gaze is raking over the notebooks and textbooks and assorted stationery she’s got spread out over the table. “You study a lot, don’t you?”

 

She’s spent the last two days convinced that her little one-woman show had effectively persuaded him to keep his sexual adventures out of her library, but the little smirk he’s wearing is starting to prick at her certainty.

 

“Are you gonna start reporting to me every single time you stack off from now on?” she says, her face scrunching in distaste. “I’m here all the time, but just to clear up any misconceptions, I don’t _actually_ work here and you don’t have to sign your hook-ups in and out.”

 

“Well, since we’re on the subject of clearing up misconceptions,” he says, dragging a diagram closer so he can squint uncomprehendingly at it, “I’m not here to — what was it — _stack off_.” He glances up at her. “Nice, by the way.”

 

Making sure to keep her flat, unamused gaze trained on his face, she deliberately puts out a hand and yanks the loose sheet of paper out from under his fingertips. “Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome,” he says lightly. “ _Baby_.”

 

She doesn’t bother looking up at him — mostly out of disdain, but also to hide the flush spreading up her neck and cheeks at the way he’d lowered his already deep voice on the word, all rough and gravelly and teasing.

 

But, again, _mostly_ disdain.

 

“What, are you expecting some kind of apology?” she asks, hopefully pulling off the breezy tone she’s forcing herself to adopt.

 

“What,” he retorts, still grinning wolfishly, “are you expecting _me_ to take credit for your Oscar-worthy performance?”

 

“Ever think maybe you _shouldn’t_ be treating the _library_ like your own personal brothel?” she suggests sharply, with a pointed raise of her brows.

 

He leans back in his chair, the grin fading slightly as he looks at her with an appraising expression. “I don’t have to pay girls to have sex with me,” he replies, folding his arms over his chest.

 

“Oh,” she says, as sickly sweet as she can manage, “I _definitely_ wasn’t implying that _they’re_ the ones getting paid.”

 

To her genuine surprise, he _laughs_.

 

“Tough crowd,” he comments once his chuckles clear up, the endearingly crooked grin returning in full force — _annoyingly_ , she means. _Annoyingly_ crooked grin. “You’re pre-med?”

 

“What I am,” she says dryly, flipping over to a fresh page on her notebook, “is _busy_. So.”

 

“So when are you done with exams?” he continues.

 

She frowns, but then she catches a gleam in his eye that lets her know he’s deliberately ignoring her unsubtle invitation for him to leave.

 

She sighs, replacing the cap on her highlighter in defeat. “If I answer, will you leave?”

 

“Sure,” he says easily.

 

She narrows her eyes suspiciously, but his face is relaxed, his expression almost _pleasant_.

 

“Fine. I start on Monday, I’ll be done the Thursday after next.” She cocks her head expectantly. “Goodbye now.”

 

He whistles lowly, letting his fingers graze over another set of her notes. “That’s a long way to go.”

 

She huffs, pulling the notes out of his reach. “You’re supposed to be leaving.”

 

He shrugs, his grin widening ever so slightly. “I didn’t say _when_ I’d leave.”

 

She stares at him, unsure of whether to feel appalled or the tiniest bit flattered that he’s apparently less than willing to relinquish her company.

 

“Alright, alright,” he says, shaking his head with his hands held up in a placating gesture of mock surrender. “How about this — you answer one more question, and I’ll leave right after.”

 

She studies him warily, absently tapping the highlighter on the blank page of her open notebook as she considers his offer. “ _One_ more question.”

 

“One more,” he affirms with a decisive nod. “And you have to answer _truthfully_.”

 

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. If this is the quickest way to get back to studying, so be it. “What.”

 

“What’s your number?”

 

She gapes at him in disbelief.

 

He looks right back at her, patiently waiting.

 

She snaps her mouth shut, blinking rapidly. “You don’t even know my _name_.”

 

“Clarke Griffin — way organised, doesn’t listen to music when studying like the rest of us mortals, a pretty decent actress.” He wrinkles his nose. “Pre-med, it looks like?”

 

She’s leaning back in her chair now, a little stunned. “How d’you—”

 

He taps his fingers on her notes. “You write your name on everything.”

 

Her face colours a little, and she crosses her arms over her chest as she struggles to shove it down. “What do you want my number for?” she demands. “As much as I appreciate you wanting to notify me every time you’re planning on having a full-blown orgy in here, I’d really much rather you just. You know. _Not_.”

 

“Close,” he says, shaking his head. “But actually, I just need your number so I can ask you out once you’re done with exams.”

 

She forces herself to ignore the surge of pleased interest in favour of a derisive scoff. “Let me guess. You want to take me out on a date so you can bring me here after for some stacks action?” She shakes her head, picking up her pen. “I don’t think so.”

 

“That what you think I was doing with Roma?” he asks.

 

His contemplative expression catches her off-guard, and she takes a few seconds to recover her unimpressed scowl.

 

“Oh, so you do know her name,” she says acidly.

 

“Roma and I weren’t dating,” he says — calm, quiet, matter-of-fact. “We’re just friends. Friends who hook up sometimes. Same as the other girls.” He hesitates suddenly, and she’s irresistibly drawn in by the nervous crease etched between his knitted brows. “Believe it or not, I actually _don’t_ have a girlfriend.”

 

She deliberates his confession for a few long moments, but it’s not because she doesn’t believe him.

 

It’s because she’s not quite able to believe how completely she _does_ believe him.

 

He rubs one hand across the back of his neck. “If I was gonna take you anywhere after a date,” he says half-wryly, “trust me — it wouldn’t be here.”

 

There’s another brief silence, where he’s suddenly unable to meet her assessing gaze.

 

“Well,” she says finally, brushing stray strands of blonde out of her eyes, “I guess we’ll find out then, won’t we?”

 

He looks at her, eyes wide and mouth splitting in a slow smile. “Yeah?”

 

“Thursday after next,” she says, trying her best to keep the smile off her face as she tears a small square off from the blank notebook page and writes her number down.

 

The smile leaks through all the same, and she rolls her eyes, playing it off as affectionate exasperation directed at him as she hands over the slip of paper. “You better not send me any stupid Internet memes or anything distracting while I’m studying.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, grinning brightly as he takes the paper, “You’re not distracted by dick pics, are you?”

 

She laughs despite herself, shaking her head as he stands. “I want to say yes, but honestly, my only hard limit is Pepe the Frog.”

 

“Great, same,” he says, pushing the chair back in. “See you Thursday after next, Clarke.”

 

“Bye, Bellamy,” she says in amusement, watching as he walks out of the library, his dark curls bouncing and shifting on his head with every step.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Barely five minutes passes before her phone is buzzing with a text alert. It’s an unknown number, but once she sees the message, she grins to herself.

 

 

 

**Don’t stay out too late, baby.**

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, as always! hope you enjoyed it =)
> 
> if you did like it, feel free to leave a kudos or better yet, A COMMENT to let me know what you thought! would love to hear from you =)
> 
> you scream i scream we all scream [on tumblr](http://caramellakers.tumblr.com)


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